


The Inimitable Clegane!

by AsbestosMouth



Series: The Dornewall Chronicles [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 1920's, AU obviously, Dornewall is lovely this time of year, F/M, Fluff and Crack, I Don't Even Know, Jeeves and Woosterly, Jolly English Chaps, Just all a bit Scilly, Lots of characters biffing in and out, M/M, Multi, Ran out of Dorne puns, Rare Pairings, So many relationships!, Valet!Sandor with those shoulders!, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Wheelchairs at Dorne, what ho!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-23 08:40:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6111114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsbestosMouth/pseuds/AsbestosMouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Willas Tyrell sadly loses his valet to marriage, he is the market for a new gentleman's gentleman. He was not banking on the new chap being one Clegane; six and a half feet of ruddy enormous Scotsman, bristling with ill-hidden truculence. When invited to a splendid society wedding, poor Tyrell finds himself stickily entrenched in yet another unwanted engagement - can the inimitable Clegane rescue his master from matrimonial shackles? Will all be happy ever after for the young master? </p><p>It's the Jeeves and Wooster inspired fic that you all wanted. Honestly. What ho, top hole, all that jazz. Chapters to be added when polished up a little bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which We Meet Clegane, And Other Things Are Rambled About At Length

**Author's Note:**

> When you realise that you are dreaming in Jeeves and Wooster and in AsoIaF at the same time, things happen. Bad things. Terrible things. At least it's not Sherlock, though now I have the urge to write other works as parodies of, dammit. That's book!Sherlock, though, or the 1980's TV version. Jeremy Brett is my One True Sherlock, sorry Benedict. I blame British TV in the 80's for many things, not just my strange need to be inspired by it. Nothing beats Thundercats, Dungeons and Dragons, Duckula, or Dangermouse, and I am now officially a Grumpy Old Woman. When I was young, etc.etc. 
> 
> Fic more inspired by the Fry and Laurie Jeeves and Wooster TV series than the books. If you can, have a little look at that; excellent series.
> 
> I have no beta - any mistakes are my fault. Hope I caught them all, but I get a bit word blind after a while and everything seems to blur into one giant letter-y mess.

**Chapter 1 - In Which We Meet Clegane, And Other Things Are Rambled About At Length**

* * *

 

My old gentleman’s gentleman, Payne - terribly young but excellent brandy and soda -  had biffed off to marry above his station to a tiny yet strapping young Stark beazel, so it was upon the broad shoulders of yours truly to nab a new gentleman to keep number 2, Roseroad Mansions in the manner that was required. Renly offered to whizz around and conjure, but no, I told him with vim and vigour, no, it is my decision who my new chap is, and mine alone. Knowing Renly, he’d have some pretty little useless headed flower flimmering about the flat, but I, the scion of the Tyrells, required more than a handsome face and lissom figure!

 

In all end of it, it was not me who chose the chap I ended up with, more that he chose me. There I was, gasper in hand and surveying the gee-gees in the paper, quite engrossed in deciding between _Soupy Twist_ and _Demagoguery,_ when in stomps this massive example of masculinity dressed in a morning suit, complete with an overly sour expression and all these scars. I mean, I am not as Renly (or Loras - I am sure he is allergic to Not Beautiful, the silly old fruit) -  and demanding physical perfection in one’s staff, but really, biscuits being taken and all!

 

“Clegane.” Scottish and rumbly. Enormous. Bull-like, and breakable Tyrells, are never quite a match. Actually, many things and delicate Tyrells never the twain should meet, but good Lords, Clegane is the largest, bull-est, and angriest of valets. Excellent for scaring away lurking grandmothers, my mind told me at this first meeting  with a certain excited chatter; the idea of Olenna being shepherded from the room and away from this young master was, in all, a clinching deal.

 

“Ah, Clegane. You’re here, marvellous. Frightfully good to have you on board, what?”

 

He stared. Anger radiated. Even his hair was peeved. He handed me a pack, which contained references from that horrid little scrote Joffrey Baratheon, who has nothing but compliments to pay to the Hulking One before me. Part of me still wonders if the pleasantries were forced under duress; Baratheon (dead, and I am not a chap to wish ill upon anyone, but by the Stranger, it was jolly well close with that cove) was never a brave sort, more jelly-like about the spine than most, but he employed many large and angry gentlemen to foist his own bubbling anger upon the world via meaty fists and the like. Clegane was quite the classic Baratheon rage dispensing type.

 

“Yeah.”

 

I stared. He stared back. I may have whimpered as he loomed over yours truly, but the Pride of the Tyrells does not allow me to elucidate further. If we were in a war, perhaps some medieval civil war where Roses fought, oh gosh, I don’t know, Wolves and Dragons perhaps, I would have been quite the gonner with those massive meaty paws wrapped about my slender Tyrell throat. One tiny twist and _CRACK._ Considering my posish, re. rolling chair and all, I had that horrid sense of feeling terribly vulnerable . I am sure that many of you are vigorous and healthy types, replete with the usual number of limbs that work in the usual manner, but when one is furnished with a rotten pair of legs one can feel very small and insecure when nervous.

 

“Could I possibly trouble you for a brandy and soda? Please?” I asked with extreme politeness. It would not be correct, I surmised, to just throw a desire out there, and have it magically fulfilled. Unlike Payne, who seemed to whisk about silently and with only a faint clumsiness that manifested in overly roasted meat (thank you, Lady Tarth! I am aware that his usefulness had nothing to do with that Imp, Lannister!), Clegane could break a man through sheer glaring.

 

A grunt, and he perused the inner workings of the drinks cabinet. At least he used a correct glass, and for once I was jolly well thrilled on the b&s being heavy on the b. and light on the s.

 

* * *

 

Twas easy enough to fall into a routine, albeit a faintly terrified routine. I would be awakened at nine ack emma with a corking strong cup of tea - like the builders drink, I was told - then a leisurely brekker at 9.30. Papers, bets chosen, and Clegane sent off to pop them on for me during the morning, then some improving books with requisite note-taking and a light spot of luncheon - possibly a swift whisky. Clegane told me, in no certain terms, that my drinks cabinet contained inferior sorts of _uisge beatha_ , and he therefore inquired at a small and exclusive distillery beyond the Wall for a finer quality dram. One wonders if Hadrian would have ever considered fencing the Scottish in would produce a propensity for excellent liqueur? The contents of the reverently received box were jolly well delish, and I do recommend the ‘87 Rayder (oak casked, fifteen years distilled apparently - Clegane is quite the connoisseur of the whisky it appears) to all of my readers.

 

After lunch, I usually biff about the flat whilst Clegane does whatever valets do, awaiting Lady Tarth who advises upon my poor legs. When she entered the sacred chambers of 2, Roseroad Mansions for the first time since Clegane had been installed, the results were most amusing indeed! Jolly enormous beasel is Lady Tarth, all cropped hair and big blue eyes and muscles that could crush a chap. She fences for England, advises persons of note about injuries sustained in strange and wondrous ways, and apparently hunts riding the most enormous horses one could imagine. Apparently her new steed is mostly Clydesdale, with a smattering of thoroughbred for speed! One could imagine her cheerfully donning armour and riding forth in defense of her estate and England, and it sometimes is rather a shame that she was born a. an ugly woman and b. in the incorrect time period. However, she is a good friend to myself; we met through Loras, who met her through Renly, who considered her an excellent sort, although definitely the wrong gender. Her sense and honour is second-to-none, and since she wed Goldenhand Lannister (all the Lannisters seem to have nicknames, although the sister’s one is nigh on unrepeatable!) she has blossomed into a more confident young lady.

 

Dash it all, I’ve done it again! Tangents, tangents, all over the place. Anyhow, Clegane opened the door to see Lady Tarth, in her tweedy suit and only perhaps a couple of inches smaller than himself, and it was as if they were sizing each other up. Eyes narrowed. Jaws tightened. Sparks, of the not erotic type, flew. It was as if two jousting knights, one rather less honourable than the other, were glaring across those board-y things the horses run against.

 

Clegane grunted, and stepped back to allow Lady Tarth access, hovering as she plopped herself down upon the Chesterfield.

 

“Tea, please, Clegane.”

 

Another grunt, then he disappeared. The clattering about the kitchen indicated he was doing as requested.

 

“Where did you get Clegane from, Willas?” Dear Brienne sounded terribly worried, in that do-gooding way she has. She feels as if she could right the world by being terribly nice and worthy, the lamb.

 

“I lost Payne, he’s married Arya you know-” and she nodded, for she had been at the wedding too, and in the momentous marvel of the matrimonial mayhem we had not managed to say two words. “Needed a new chap, and Clegane showed up.”

 

“He’s dangerous, Willas. He was Joffrey’s man.” Now, Lady Tarth and the Baratheons are linked, marriage as ever! Cersei Lannister is the mother of the now dead Baratheon spawn, though I must admit that the younger two are terribly sweet - the girl is suitable engaged to the Martell boy, and Tommen has quite the pash for my sister, Margaery, despite being an age difference. Like Loras, Margie received Grandmother’s striking looks, leaving me and Garlan to be the terribly normal ones out of our quad, and she has chaps hanging off her like that Coco Chanel apparel she adores to sport.

 

Anyhow, Brienne’s worse half is the twin of the Baratheon matriarch; ergo, sister-in-laws, one angelic, the other quite the opposite. It seems time may have softened Jaime Lannister (possibly the loss of his right hand to a bayonet charge during the Great War, hence the Goldenhanded epithet - why the Lannisters decided on a golden prosthetic I have no idea, but they are the sort of nouveaux riches that do that sort of thing, and I do apologise for my outburst, but I am not at all a ‘fan’ of the family, apart from Tyrion who is more than amusing in small doses, and Jaime is well-behaved when Brienne is lurking at his side as she normally does) but his sister is belligerent as ever. Such a shame - she has a corking profile, one of the best this chap has ever seen - but beauty is lessened when owned by someone with the personality of an irate drunken hell-cat.

 

“I’ve had no trouble, and he’s been terribly helpful about the flat.” Having useless legs means that I often need a chap to move me about without that horrid and cumbersome wheelchair I am confined to, half the time. A good friend of mine, Doran Martell (father to the aforementioned one, and yes, this is quite an incestuous group here, but we upper-classes are all intermarried and friended, are we not?!) is in the same sitch viz. the chair, and recommended getting a strapping sort to lift me about when required. It is awfully embarrassing most of the time, but one does get used to it. We do have a little club of chaps with disabilities; Doran, myself, Lannister x2 (Imp being a Dwarf and therefore an honorary member), young Bran Stark also since that awful accident from the tower. We tend to chat about newfangled inventions, Brienne biffs about and sorts any problems we have medically, give and receive advice etc.etc. Jolly nice to have a few friends who understand the difficulties a chap can go through when one’s legs are awful.

 

Oddly enough, I have another chap who I write with often, that being Oberyn Martell - Doran’s little brother - and the one who inadvertently maimed me. Jolly nice man, and he’s the one that recommended his brother to me. Although I admit I converse with the Viper more than Doran, which to many might seem a trifle odd, considering he sent me into my wheelchair with foolish youthful hijinks. We cannot bear grudges for acts of Gods, can we? Reminds me, must pop down to the Dorne to see the Martells all. I’ve been promising, and they at least have an estate that caters to the chap in the chair.

 

“But he’s dangerous,” Brienne pressed, and I took her hand in mine. Of course, her hand dwarfed mine, but I hoped my touch would soothe her worried nerve.

 

“My dear Brienne, I can look after myself, you know? I am aware that I am a little vulnerable with having awful legs, but I am a clever sort who can cope with the myriad of oddness that life can fling at one. Clegane is brutish, and intimidating, and his manner is terribly rough, but I have nothing but decent things to say about the chap. He does everything I ask, his cooking is more than passable, he nips out and does the errands that I can’t, he collects my books from the library and returns the on time, and he is quite reassuring in his largeness. Bit like you, eh?” I nudged her, and smiled, and she smiled back, albeit with difficulty.

 

“You’ve been through such a lot, Willas, and I don’t trust Clegane one bit. If he does hurt you, I’ll-”

 

“Pound the life out of him with impunity and honour, I know, my dear.” Perhaps I should have married her myself? I never turned her head as Renly did, or charmed her through hate and erotic sorts of frisson as Jaime. She  would never settle for a man who could not meet her physically; even if Lannister did turn out to be her Mr. Rochester and for his loss of hand to finally bring them together, he was once a supreme athlete himself.

 

Kissing her gently on the brow - I am a brother-sort to young ladies, safe I suppose from the lusts they find both abhorrent and thrilling - I bade her help with my leg exercises before Clegane furnished us with strong tea.

 

After Lady Tarth or other visitors leave, I take a refreshing nap before dinner, and upon waking I read some of my many tomes, or answer my letters. Being one of England’s foremost voices upon the biology behind the breeding of livestock, I am often inundated with requests of help, or other scholarly chaps debating finer points. Oberyn and I often joust with our quills upon the fields of paper, for he too shares my passion for horseflesh and the finer points of better breeding. Our correspondence dances and wheels, like those hawks he is so damned fond of, and I have found myself quite involved with the idea of reviving hunting with birds of prey. I mean, I’d prefer not to go near those things, not with those awful talons! It is a trifling strange that I am not terrified of horses, given I fell off one and destroyed myself very thoroughly, but a horse is such a noble beast, of spirit, not possessing three inch long claws which would like to be firmly inserted into my face!

 

Dinner is taken at my club on most nights, where I associate with my fellows. The Imp is always to be found there, with gallows humour and sarcastic wit, accompanied by his man, Bronn. This would usually be a strange and rummy deal, but Bronn seems to not be As Other Men, and eschews the usual sense of things. He also is able to reach the bar, for which I am sure Tyrion is thrilled. The other Lannister joins us when Lady Tarth is at her fencing practice, though he often mopes about and wishes he were watching her. He seems to have a ‘thing’ for a woman who can fight, and expounds upon the wonders and marvels of Brienne when he is in his cups. Sometimes a random Stark will appear, though never at the same time; I am sure, given my knowledge of biology and breeding, that the one called Jon who is supposedly the natural son of Eddard Stark, patriarch of the clan, is not of that man’s loins, but this is not my place to say whatsoever. The other, Robb, is less sullen but still a little reserved, and is often accompanied by Greyjoy Minor, who is quite the opposite of reserved and often has to be censured by the club for his pranks and overly-familiar manner with the waitresses.

 

Various others biff in and out. Renly and Loras turn up sometimes, though they declare that we are all a load of old-fashioned fuddy-duddies who are relics trapped in a sad and disappearing way of live. Come the revolution etc.etc.. Definitely reading Marx on the quiet, those two! I once asked Renly if he would give Storm’s End to the people come the aforementioned revolution, and he turned rather pink and said that his older, terribly stern brother, would probably shoot him if he attempted that. Having met Stannis Baratheon, I understand the reticence. The cove would gut you if you attempted to break any sort of law; no wonder he is a High Court Judge. His man, Seaworth, is one of the peripheral members of our little cripple club - poor chap lost part of his fingers, the rumour being that Stannis was the one to remove them to punish him for some sort of wrong-doing, but since that is not law-abiding, I do not believe such guff. Nice chap, Seaworth, very down-to-earth and sensible. Excellent beard.

 

I usually partake in a few cocktails, and listen to the chatter. In any group you have the naturally dominant, and it is jolly fascinating coming from one’s ivory Roseroad tower and listening to others going on about their normal lives. It can be rather isolating to be confined, and I do appreciate the normality that my club offers. The Imp provides a great deal of salacious gossip, most of which I am sure cannot be true! I mean, the Lannister twins ‘at it’ in the past? Stannis having an affair with a witch? Seaworth being mournful as it is not he that Baratheon is at it with? I am sure he Tyrion plays with us, teasing just to see our reactions, but it does provide excellent entertainment for this Tyrell indeed! I am not one to believe gossip, but the way that the Imp tells his tales is marvellous; if he were not the youngest of an elite dynasty (albeit nouveau riche), he would grace the stage. A man with a larger personality than his stature would indicate, indeed.

 

After the club, the cab returns me home, and Clegane helps me undress and settles me in bed. Like all things, he does this with the barest of courtesy, but his efficiency and care - he is oddly gentle for such an enormous chap - means that I have grown to appreciate his foibles. Many valets are overly obsequious, they fawn and loiter and smile. With Clegane, you understand what you have - he is a straightforward sort, loyal in his way, and reliable. Likes a drink, but who does not sometimes? His scars and manner are enough to keep the fair-weather acquaintances away, and he reminds me of a large, protective hound that is keeping his master safe in a slightly slobbery, off-hand sort of way. The type of dog that lives outside, and doesn’t really respond to affection as it’s never really been given; a working creature that does it’s job without all the fripperies that a softer animal would give.

 

It is an odd sort of master-valet relationship, but it works jolly well.

 

Especially when invitations arrive, and summon Yours Truly to a wonderful wedding in Dorne.


	2. In Which Handsome Men and Engagements Occur

As the poet chappy Geeger once said:

 

 

 

> _“In Lyonesse was beauty enough, men say:_
> 
> _Long Summer loaded the orchards to excess,_
> 
> _And fertile lowlands lengthening far away,_
> 
> _In Lyonesse.”_

 

Quite mythical, don’t you think? Having now visited these fabled isles, I rather agree with the sentiment! Dorne, the largest and most populous of the Scilly Islands - Lyonesse in the Arthurian Tradition - reaches far into the lashing Atlantic. However, whilst one would imagine a chill and oppressive climate, the island has warm beaches of golden sand, lemon and orange groves, and a thrilling array of shipwrecks that inspire the Tyrell Feudal Spirit to consider piracy and 18th century naval attire. Not that I have the spritely figure needed for such clothing - I am more of a jaunty trilby and smart trousers type of chap - and piracy does demand a certain mobility that one does no longer possess. In dreams, where there are legs that work, I can be that dashing captain once and forever more!

 

Whilst it might be a little strange for a tip-top society wedding to occur outwith the capital, given the chair-ness of the Papa of the Groom, it was deemed necessary. Lovely trip for all, beautiful setting at the Water Garden, cheerful and sunny and spiffing all round!

 

We settled our rolling chairs upon the verandah, and were furnished with quite delicious gin fizzes and canapes - much to my great delight! Have you ever had a vol-au-vont? Little cups of flaked pastry, with a tasty filling nestled within, just enough to pop in one’s mouth and chow down upon. If you have not ventured into the realm of what the fast set call the ‘party snack’ (‘tis an Americanism, as all modern things are these days), I urge to to find the nearest christening, wedding, or funeral, and demand to be fed.

 

“Oberyn looks ridiculous in that suit,” Doran sighed, waving a genteel hand towards a Panama hatted vision in cream linen, who was thoroughly crooning into the ear of a rather exotic beazel. Her beaded dress was such that I have never seen that much of a feminine thigh before or since.

 

“Uncles are allowed a certain eccentricity?” I queried. “And it is a bally warm day!”

 

Doran snorted. “I adore my brother, but he has the most outlandish sense of occasion.”

 

“Later, when everyone else is boiled lobstering about, he will be cool and cucumberesque.”

 

“Speaking of cucumber,” and Doran turned to his chap, Hotah, who lurked with more intent even than Clegane, “ could you bring a jug of Pimms with all the trimmings?” The drinks arrived with lightning efficiency.

 

“How are things, old bean?” I picked the mint from the Pimms and nibbled at it. “All well Chez Martell?”

 

“Trys is very happy, and Myrcella is a decent sort of girl - compliments him well. Sensible and kind, sweet manner, a good type really, given-” The parentage. Luckily, Cersei had not yet been spotted, but rumour was that several excellent bottles of the local Dornish redcurrant wine had been snaffled away in the night.

 

“I’m so sorry that you will be shackled as in-laws.” I reached out, patting him in a soothing and hopefully bracing manner upon the forearm. “At least they won’t visit? Cersei cannot abide being anywhere apart from the Capital; she might run out of booze and striking blond young men.”

 

Ah! That elucidated a smirk upon the old Martell lips!

 

“Gods, I despise that woman.”

 

“We all do, my dear.” More soothing. I even made a shushing noise, patting more vigorously.

 

“Your Grandmother has been eyeing the females.”

 

It was very much my turn to be coddled.

 

* * *

 

‘Cella looked delightful in frothy Balenciaga, hair all curled and eyes done a la Theda Bara, gliding about like an over-exuberant souffle. Trystane sported the sort of expression that canary-catching felines would be jealous of, arm tight about his new wife’s waist. Young love and all that soupiness, eh? Nothing that this Tyrell would wish to become involved in, but the way they mooned about - as if they were just made to be each other’s specific dream rabbits  - was adorable in a fluffy sort of way. They did rather remind me of two soft-furred mammals, voles perhaps, or a bonded pair of newts (I am aware these are not mammals, but some newts do mate for life!), snuggled together in a world where innocence could be savagely ripped away.

 

Of course, when love is allowed to develop without the interference of Grandmothers, it is a splendid creature indeed. In the matter of Martell and Baratheon, there was some timely shoving towards each other by relevant parties, but it all turned out rather top hole when the two youngsters rather liked the look of the other and decided they would jolly well go for this marriage lark! All this arranging of engagements is a terrible bore to all involved, and I recommend staying away from elderly female family members who bring it upon themselves to foist starry-eyed beazels upon unwilling young chaps such as myself.

 

“Does it not inspire you to marry, my dear Willas?” Oberyn topped up my glass of red once again. Terribly handsome cove, is Oberyn, I expect he gets covered in young ladies. “The beauty of the ceremony, the love shown between the couple, the vows taken before the Gods?” 

 

“Lords no, not me! Not my type of event and I best not even appreciate it out loud perchance Olenna is listening.” She was enthroned next to Margaery, probably setting some poor chap up to be trapped in the Tyrell females’ spider web.

 

“I am sure you could choose any of the beautiful women in this venue, if you so wished.” His finger brushed mine accidentally as he popped the wine bottle down. There had been a ridiculous amount of vintage champagne offered, and now the delights of the Dornish vineyards pressed upon us with vigour.

 

“Tosh and rot, Oberyn! I am not their knight in sparkling armour, and none of them have any idea on the finer points of horseflesh, philosophy, or the classics.” I am sure some of them did. I had no idea. An odd sort of giddiness decided to slosh about my cranium; the wine, of course, and the heat of the day striking yours truly. Lucky Oberyn in his cool linen, and he’d taken his bow tie off at some point, so his shirt was unbuttoned over his throat and collar bones. He looked dashed comfy lounging there, all olive-dark skin and glowy eyes. Gosh. My head swam - a syrup of tiddliness -  painfully aware that inane giggling threatened. I am nothing if not a giggler after having a few. Giggling and possible puppylike adoration toward the ones I am with. That did explain four of the previous engagements.

 

“Greek or Roman? I err on the side of Greek. I find it more...thrusting.” Purring? Was Oberyn purring? It suited him jolly well; as if he were a large and lazy black panther just lolling about before attacking some poor innocent antelope he had within his sights. He tucked his hand into the inner pocket of my suit jacket with great familiarity, palm slithering across my torso for ease of access, and drew out my cigarette case. A flick of his fingers upon an elegant steel lighter (I need one of these! Looks topping with the blue flame leaping forth!) two gaspers blazed into life.

 

“I...um…” He popped the cigarette between my lips, again accidentally touching. For such an elegant cove he can be frightfully clumsy.

 

As Oberyn leaned forward to murmur something into my ear, a large hand plucked the glass from my slackening fingers, nicked my fag, and then I was gently propelled toward the beckoning coolness of the verandah.

 

* * *

 

“I say Clegane,” admonished this Tyrell. “Swooping in and stealing me away from a lovely time with a chap and a friend? By the Warrior, not on at all!”

 

Clegane shrugged. Those shoulders could carry mountains, or whatever that Atlas cove does for the day job. Broad, masculine (ungentlemanly muscled) shoulders, clad in perfectly fitting black wool. Terribly well-built is Clegane, more so when one is giddy from a goodly amount of booze. Idly I wondered what he would look like with the valet jacket togs off, with those perfectly ironed white shirt sleeves rolled up over arms hewn from top-quality Scottish granite. Not that I usually daydream about servants - against the Code of the Tyrells, after all - though Clegane’s shoulders do make some things jolly hard.

 

How my Paragon of valetry had not passed out in the murky warmth of the Dornish afternoon I did not know. Nor, at that moment, was I caring. Snatched away from Oberyn, with his glowy eyes and thoroughly fascinating caressing voice that was like being gently dunked into a vat of warm honey! Thrown into a sobering moment with an abrasive gentleman’s gentleman who had stolen my gasper from my very mouth! And not just any old fag, but Myrish!

 

Dismayed was too delicate a word to be flung at this sitch.

 

“Prefered if he’d not looked like he was going to bugger you over the table. Sir.” He never called me sir. Clegane never called me anything. He just didn’t. The horrid sober-y feeling deepened with the unspoken censure, as if I were being scolded for something naughty. I straightened up, staring across the manicured green lawns of the estate and out to the hypnotic blue of the for-once calm Atlantic, trying and succeeding in thoroughly squash the idea of the aforementioned Martell and the aforementioned buggering.

 

I mean, haven’t we all gone to public school and university? Haven’t we all had healthy larks with boys when driven to experimenting at that rotten time called puberty? Haven’t we all had grand pashes upon unattainable gentlemen who break our hearts by dint of being unattainable and usually wedded off?

 

But really? Oberyn Martell, with that enticing suggestion of dark chest hair and skin like caramel? Would that perfect linen suit crease? How on earth would the creases be resolved? Clegane would intimidate those creases from the aforementioned suit with sheer bloody-mindedness. But really! Oberyn Martell was just being a damned good super nice spiffy terribly dashing sort of chap at yours truly, no boomps-a-daisy or larking about of a sodomical type there!

 

Sadly.

 

“No, Clegane. Perfectly mistaken. He’s dripping with beazels!”

 

My valet made a sound that sounded like the last death call of an expiring sheep, before roaring off and leaving me vulnerable to, well, anyone who happened upon this young master.

 

Alone. Near lurking Grandmothers.

 

* * *

 

“Willas. There you are.”

 

“What ho, Olenna!”

 

From my perch upon the verandah I could espy no cunning escape route, and no valet to propel me to safety and well-earned brandy. Towards me marched the Matriarch of Tyrells Everywhere, eyes fixed upon this poor Willas and expression edging towards the shark-like. All in black, as her wont (despite this being a happy occasion, The Dowager Lady Tyrell does not allow such a frippery as marriage to force her into less stern attire) she was as the prow of an ocean-going liner that sliced through raging waters; corsetted in the way of twenty years ago, skirts swishing about the deck boards, beady little eyes glittering with something I rather not try and guess at.

 

“Do shut up, Willas, there’s a good boy.”

 

I did. Would you not have clammed up like a giant bivalve when faced with the terror of a Grandmother on some sort of mission? I am a man of science, not of action! Bravery has a place, and I have been brave in many areas of my life i.e. leg issues, but something about Olenna makes this tough chap wither into a quivering spineless jelly. I know enough to realise that if I smile and nod, she generally just launches into her piece, and then biffs off to leave me in peace.

 

“Clegane at least had the presence of mind to remove you from that Martell boy.” Both names were mentioned with an absolutely vinegary manner.

 

Boy? Oberyn was at least thirty five! Older. Experienced. I felt that odd drunken heat build once more, and attempted to fan myself with a nearby palm leaf. Grandmother is so ancient, I suppose, that everyone under seventy is a mere sapling when compared to her.

 

“Aged relative-”

 

“ Willas!”

 

Back to silence! I wriggled within the dashed chair, wishing that it could go up and down steps. Perhaps in the future there will be some sort of propellant to allow those things that cannot climb staircases to be able to, in case of emergency, need, or general nefarious requirement? When idly dreaming about nothing much, I imagine the plot of some great wireless series, possibly broadcast on a Saturday night to a tea-time audience, wherein the main protagonist and his assistant escape from villains who cannot climb stairs. Perhaps I’ll dash off a note to the BBC to enquire if this would make a topping radio programme?

 

“Since avoiding such a debacle,” she continued, “I have decided that you simply must marry. Just for the sanity of the rest of the family.”

 

To be perfectly honest, this is the same conversation I have been having with my Grandmama since I were a mere tadpole in the slightly stagnant pond of existence. I would prefer, obviously, to remain froggish and unwed, but it always sorted itself out in the end through a sheer comedy of errors and amusing misunderstandings. 

 

“Which one this time, Granny?” 

 

“And don’t call me Granny. Willas, you are a very good boy, far too clever for your own good with books and your sciences, but when it comes to people-” A sigh, raising that prow-like bosom to alarming extremes, but her voice softened just a tad. “You are far too naive. How you can even think of being friends with that Martell boy is beyond me; not only did he cripple you and destroy any hope of you living a normal life, but he is a vile toad who seduces all sorts of empty-headed floozies. Children scattered all about the globe, they say, and that woman he has brought to the wedding? Shameless, Willas, he is a shameless man! And this is the sort of person you befriend? And that valet of yours-” And here she gave a shiver, the sort her Pekingese does after running across dewy lawns. “Beastly.”

 

“I say-”

 

“Willas! Anyway, I have found you a girl, and you are jolly well marrying this one. It is obvious to the rest of the family that you cannot be trusted to make sensible decisions about who you associate with, so you will be getting married, keep your reputation, and you will do as you are told. I do have three other grandchildren, you know, to whom I can bequeath my vast fortune. I can always get rid of the stud farm if you prove overly foolish.” The glitter in her dark little eyes grew, sparking with a horrid sort of triumph.

 

Oh.

 

She knew where to needle, the crafty old mare. I swallowed, suddenly terribly faint, blood pounding about the old lugholes and rushing over-enthusiastically through the cortexes. Marry, and I keep my  life’s work. That’s what I do - I breed horses. Jolly massive interest, even more so since I can’t get on one any more. I was a pretty good chap on a steed! Apart from the last time I came off over that ditch Oberyn bet me I could not clear and shattered various useful parts of the Tyrellian corpus. My darling horses - Tyrion has babbled something about some sort of special saddle he’d had an idea for, but the chap was very very drunk when babbling - upon which I lavish my time and science! The breeding of gee-gees is a fascinating business. The Highgarden stock mostly consisted of hunters before I properly became involved, turning a hoof towards stamina rather than speed, but one cannot win races with a sturdy old hunter! Whittling down to two very good mares, I managed to borrow one of the colty offspring of Sand Snake (Guineas and St. Ledger 1919)  from Oberyn and introduce that. The resulting foals were jolly lightning quick, but not much substance, so I brought in Winter Wolf - winner of the 1921 Arc de Triomphe, great champion! Best legs upon any species I have seen before and since! - to add some decent density to the bone-

 

Off I go again! Dash it all, Willas, if you start whittering on, this tale will canter off somewhere else. Where was I? 

 

Ah, yes. Threats from the Grand Mater.

 

“Dash it all, Olenna!” I squeaked. “Threatening a chap into doing his marital duty is a low blow, even for you!”

 

“It is for your own good, Willas.” She gave me a hearty poke to the shin with her pointed boot toe, nodding towards the lawn.

 

Margaery chatted too casually for my liking, obviously involved in the machinations of our Grandmother, to a terribly young and terribly pretty beazel, resplendant in silver-grey silk, and sporting a cracking profile. Lovely hair. Tall, too - made Margie look positively shrimpish.

 

“Who’s she?” I queried, though I knew the answer, if not the name.

 

“That’s your bride, Willas. Her name is Sansa Stark.”


	3. In Which Everyone Mocks the Young Master, and Clegane Rises to the Challenge

* * *

 

 

“Brienne!” wailed I as I pressed my fevered brow unto her sympathetic and broad shoulder. “She has jolly well got me by the unmentionables, and I cannot see a way out of the soup, old bean!”

 

Trapped into matrimony by a Machiavellian elderly relative, thrust into the world of wedded bliss through no fault of one’s own due to all this silliness about breeding and heirs and continuing the glorious line of the Tyrells. Obviously with Margie being a girl and Loras being not much better, I was seen as the scion of all hopes and dreams, but dash it all, why not Garlan? Just because he is popping off across the globe with some army regiment, does not mean he is unable to impregnate a likely sort of filly, eh? Garlan is sensible, stoic, and noble. He looks excellent in dress uniform. He possesses limbs that work, and the necessary bits needed to spawn children. Not that I am un-blessed in the trousers department, and everything is tickety-boo down there, just so you are perfectly aware of the situation. But Garlan - Garlan has the requisite female helpmeet in life, and actually rather likes her. Why can heirs not spring forth from loins that are prepared and eager for springing?

 

“Sansa is terribly nice,” she countered. The traitor! However, her nails were scritching tiny little pleasant circles upon my scalp, and I decided to allow her the transgression for a moment due to my limbs quietly turning to jam. “She’s ever so pretty, and has a lovely voice, and I’m sure that if you have to get married, she’d be a decent sort for you to be with-”

 

“That’s it, wench, torment the poor sod more. Really rub it in there, about how perfect his to be wife is, and how he should feel guilty that he doesn’t want to marry her, and how she’s so young, and adorable-”

 

“Jaime!”

 

It was true, and I loathe it when Lannister is on the button. He is so ridiculously glorious looking that sometimes one can forget he can be horridly perceptive and possesses somewhat more of a brain than could be expected. He lounged, golden and perfect (even his stupid stump is perfect, somehow, given that the hand was blown off in some trench in Belgium, and the arm should have remained a ragged mess but some chappy called Gillies performed marvels*) smoking a cigarillo which he wedged between the fingers of that idiotic golden hand and rubbing a bare foot up and down Brienne’s for-once-stockinged shin. She never seems to mind the mauling, possibly because we all know that Lannister is completely and utterly devoted to the poor lamb. Lions and lambs never the twain should meet, but these two seem to rub along quite well. Out of all the couples bunked up together, they seem to be the most content.

 

Brienne does not suit dresses. She has the sort of athletic, Amazonian figure that cries out for hunting pinks, or shirts worn with breeches and long boots. When once the Imp decided upon holding a fancy-dress party, Lady Tarth and Lannister decided to come as each other. I spent most of the evening (dressed as the Emperor Hadrian, jolly good sort that chap, super wall and all that, chair decked out as a spiffing chariot) slightly discombobulated by Brienne suiting a suit. If I had wifed her, I’d have popped her in a suit every day of the year, and societal niceties be damned! If Lannister does pop his clogs at any point, and I am still hounded by aged Grandmothers, I’ll put the sitch to m’lady currently of Lannister.

 

Perhaps if all women wore suits, I would find marriage a more appealing state of mind? Perhaps I have some Pavlovian response to suits? It would be a fascinating experiment to undertake, to see if the old Tyrell brain is wired towards sartorial attire rather than, you know, the fairer sex? I mean, all the more attractive people within my sphere are togged up from Saville Row and such; perhaps the Suit Maketh The Man (or Lady When Allowed To Wear One At Certain Festivites?)

 

Tangent, Willas. Onward with the actual meaty delicacies that you require, dear reader viz. my rambling tale!

 

“Well it is true.” I mumbled into the smooth satin covering her clavicle. Tweed had been ruthlessly banished from the Brienne person. “I should be thrilled that someone so pretty should be foisted upon me, but I do not wish for any sort of foisting to occur! I’m not a catch-” and here Jaime agreed whole-heartedly, the swine! “and I am quite sure that there are many lucky young men who would fall over themselves to be attached to Sansa.”

 

“She was engaged to Joffrey, which shows she’s probably an imbecile . Even an ugly cripple like you is better than that.”

 

Brienne chucked my cigarette case at Jaime, albeit gently, and it bounced impressively off his forehead. The cad just grinned, then stole another of my precious Myrish! At this rate, I’m bally well going to have to stockpile, since valets and Lannisters have no contrition at stealing a chap’s gaspers.

 

“Lady Stark wants the best for Sansa, and you are a good man, Willas.” I detached myself, de-limpeting from the once soothing and comforting shoulder. Brienne was now as an iceberg; an unwelcoming lump of frozen substance ready to breach the side of one’s Titanic, if you get my meaning. Quite ready to sink this poor chap! “You are kind, after all.”

 

“But I don’t want to marry her! I want to tell Olenna to go and boil her head!”

 

I decided that as I obviously was lacking the care and support of my supposed friends, I would canvas opinions and assistance elsewhere. It is difficult to flounce about when one is confined to a wheelchair, but I think I managed admirably, albeit with the help of a passing waitress.

 

* * *

 

Stannis was no help whatsoever.

 

He stared down from his great and spindly height, all long nose and irritating superiority, before announcing that he had no idea why I needed to cry off from this marriage, that it was an excellent match of two great families, and that Sansa was suitably equipped with impressive child-bearing hips. I would have sons he told me with a shiver of bitterness lurking somewhere, from a fertile and handsome young woman. Did I not know the passion of a redhead? Did I not understand the fires stoked within the souls of those kissed by flame?

 

I almost told him to marry her himself, if he was that involved with the whole shebang, but he would have started upon the finer points of bigamy, so I escaped before being lectured at.

 

* * *

 

Tyrion thought I was mad.

 

“Have you seen her? Those legs, those…” Here he waved his hands about as if to emphasise something approaching sand dunes or impressive hillocks. “You’d have to be bloody insane not to go for that, Will. Or-” He squinted, face crumpling and odd eyes sharp and overly bright. Always on the sauce, Tyrion, or on a beazel. Often both, or several, at the same time. I have been unfortunate to learn that his many many conquests refer to him either by the names of Grand National winners, or simply as ‘Tripod.’

 

Bronn, lurking near as ever, agreed. “I’d do her. Bet she’s a right go-er. It’s always the quiet ones, innit?” How Tyrion allowed his man to be so familiar with the rest of us chaps was forever a mystery, but I expect he has something terribly blackmail-ish over the Imp’s head. Or they form some sort of beazel hunting party and flush them out of cover and into beds, or whatever they two of them do.

 

“Or you’d prefer something with less-” That hand movement again. “And more-” And this gesture was so obscene, I scarpered into the ever growing evening.

 

* * *

 

Avoiding the various Starks that lurked about was perfectly easy until I was cornered by the Paynes. I parked up for a brief respite, partaking of a swift gasper and b. and s., and I was just beginning to feel the stiff tension leech forth from one’s neck, until a rather familiar cough dragged me from my sweet reverie.

 

“Good evening, sir.” Payne, pink faced and shifting back and forth upon his feet, produced a tiny and angry little female who had been hidden in his vast and bulky shadow. “Um. Arya wanted to-”

 

“Hurt my sister, and you will die.” She smiled, sweetly, and I understood that she was as dotty as a cheetah wearing lipstick. “I know where you live, and if you do anything to upset Sansa, I will stab you.”

 

She fences. Brienne is teaching her and says she is so bally good that she’ll be representing Old Blighty terribly soon.

 

* * *

  
  
“Margie, I don’t want to get married! I’m going to be slaughtered by an angry beazel with a sabre! If I don’t get married, I’ll still be slaughtered!” I scrabbled at her arm in a frenzy, but she shook me off as if I were a bracelet that she has decided she dislikes.

 

“Of course you do. Sansa is my special friend, she will be perfect for you. We’ve started planning the wedding, and I am Maid of Honour - imagine all the magazines I will be in?! Imagine all those chaps-” Preening, she slipped an enamelled compact from her evening bag and popped on another layer of lipstick. “Loras has said he’ll be your best man, Grandmere is paying for everything - what is there not to be excited about?” Her smile was serene, and hideously viper-esque, and very much like that which graced the wrinkled maw of Olenna that very afternoon. “It’ll be good for you.”

 

“No! I protest most thoroughly! This is good for no-one, let alone me, and especially not Sansa! Margie, doesn’t she deserve someone who wants to marry her, who’ll love and cherish, honour and obey and all that rot? I am as romantic as a rotting fish! I will leave her to biff about the house whilst I read improving literature and write to chaps about the philosophers-”

 

“Oh, Willas, that will all have to end.” She ruffled my hair as if I were her youngest brother, not the scion of the Tyrells. Her nails were painted the exact shade of red as the stuff that spurts from the wound when someone i.e. a once dearly beloved sister stabs you in the back. “You will have other responsibilities. Olenna says she will provide you with a decent house, not that poky flat, and some proper servants. At least you won’t have to deal with that Clegane.”

 

“I like dealing with Clegane!” Petulance, thy name is Willas Tyrell. 

 

“He’s a thug. Olenna was right; you are hopeless when it comes to human interaction.”

 

Flinging myself down the steps in a fit of impotent rage seemed terribly attractive at that moment, but by virtue of some valet-y understanding that the young master was in a hellish snit, Clegane emerged from the shadows and whisked me away to my chamber.

 

* * *

  
  
“What’s wrong?” Clegane polished the glass before he poured a very ginny gin fizz, pushing it into my hand. I clung to the life-giving delightfulness as a man dying of thirst clings to a mirage, before downing the entire bally thing. Wordlessly, the glass was topped up, until three whole cocktails were polished off in a matter of minutes. I needed possibly half a bottle, but the snifters took the edge off for the moment; I had spent a rather large part of that entire day being squiffy, yet with the recent events, I wished to be blind-drunk and possibly passed out in the bath, not necessarily in the correct posish that would keep me not drowning in my own sick.

 

“I have been caught, evermore, in the machinations of the Grandmother, Clegane. She has, and I say it with great distress, bowled me quite out, middle stump and the bally lot.”

 

My good man grunted, before manhandling me from the rolling chair and on to the bed. He made swift work extracting me from the old fish and soup, popping me into my favourite pair of heliotrope jim-jams, the ones with the terribly spiffy lilac stripe at cuffs and hem. Clegane, being the sort that believes anything not black, navy or deep chocolate is overly-racy, hates them, but I knew that in my moment of despair I needed the security of something fruity and plush.

 

“What she done this time?” His burring voice, low and rumbling, was such a comfort. Shoving me into bed with the usual care, he plumped cushions and fetched books, placing them neatly upon the bedside cabinet. Spinoza; not quite the favourite, but a nice light bedtime snack when required.

 

“Bally well got me into an entanglement that I see no way out of. I am, as of this evening, trapped. Going to get rid of you as well, old fruit, they said.”

 

Nothing seemed to faze my paragon. He shrugged those bally enormous shoulders, pulling over a chair and settling next to my prostrate corpus. Fags were pulled from his pocket and lit, brandy materialised for us both. These little chats are very much appreciated; of course, it may seem a tad rummy that my man and I conflab at bedtime, especially as that we are almost chummy in a sort of way (although we do maintain a modicum of societal grace inasmuch as the respect between a chap and his chap remains), but when one has racing thoughts galloping across the frontal cortex, it is jolly nice to air it out to one who does not judge. Clegane is, above all, a frightfully good listener as I rabbit ever onwards. He has taken to learning about my interests i.e. horse racing, and educating yours truly on his interests i.e. alcohol and boxing. His pay shows my appreciation, of course, with the odd fiver slipped here and there for services rendered.

 

“Poor girl’s name is Sansa Stark-”

 

The sudden expellation of neat brandy across the front of my cigarette almost started a minor conflagration. I mopped the combination of alcohol and saliva with a purple silk sleeve.

 

“You? And Sansa?” He swallowed, some dark emotion raging in his steely eyes. “Sansa Stark?”

 

“Is there another beazel of that name, red of hair and tall of height?” Clegane’s reaction was dashed curious; an internal combustion of something that had him now prowling about the room like some large caged panther. “I am presuming you know the young lady in question?”

 

“Aye, she was engaged to that little shit Baratheon.” More stomping about. He looked terribly large, and terribly violent for a long moment, hands flexing as if squeezing the life from a Tyrell throat and a hectic red blazing across the unscarred cheekbone. “And now they’re pushing her at you. What is it with you fucking people?” That peat-rich accent roughened. He loomed in the flickering shadows - those scars that twisted his cheek and jaw made him seem ghoulish - staring through me and into the darkness beyond.

 

“I say!” Steady on! Of course he knew Sansa; being Joffrey’s chap, and I did sort of remember some unpleasantness regarding a Stark beazel and the Baratheon, though I had obviously mistaken the red-haired girl for the angry tiny one. Ergo, he was aware of young Miss Stark, with her unfashionably long but glorious hair, and impressive conformation. Perhaps with the aforementioned female being, as I have been told possibly twenty times that evening alone, charming and graceful and jolly well nice to all, he had protected her from the awful Baratheon-ness during the ill-fated attachment? It would make some sort of sense, and her being young and sweet - perhaps there was a desire to ’look after’ within the dark soul of Clegane, as he has done so many times regarding the young master?

 

As soon as the tempest rose, it blew itself out. Shoulders relaxed, the fingers were not clenching so murderously. He took one step, and then another, and I cowered ‘neath the bedspread until Clegane sat himself down and nicked my brandy as his had been expelled across yours truly. He looked calm, perhaps, though his brow furrowed in consideration.

 

“And you don’t want to marry her?”

 

“Not at all, old bean. Wouldn’t want to inflict this Tyrell upon the poor girl! But the old onion cannot think of a way out of this entirely overly-sticky jam.”

 

Clegane nodded, deep in thought. “Might be able to sort this little problem out for you, but you’ll have to do what I say, right?”

 

“Anything, old thing.” An idea! Dash it all, Clegane had an idea to extract the young master from the dreaded jaws of wedding-related shenanigans! My hand found his arm, and I clung to him; my life raft of sense in a cruel and Willas-hating world! Dear Clegane, so large and strong and dependable, such a loyal chap with wondrous shoulders and enormous hands, and willing to do whatever it took to relieve the murderous relative-pressure building upon the Tyrell form. It was awfully tempting to kiss his dear, ruined face and tell him that he was truly the knight of my heart in that dizzying moment where once faded hope leaped forth from the bitter ashes of despair, but I understood that the gesture would possibly not be taken in the spirit it was meant. Very manly sort is Clegane with his broad and solid back and well-formed thighs, not the type of chap to welcome a quick peck upon the cheek from the master, even given in innocence. I therefore resisted out of regard for my man, instead embracing his solidly muscled arm in silent gratitude.

 

He stared for a moment, before gently removing his well-snuggled limb and patting me upon the shoulder in silent cameraderie. Pity, also. I very much understood. I expect he, too, has Grandmothers.

 

“Going to have to ask the other valets to help though.”

 

A sickening horror leached my inner being. Seaworth was dependable; after all, a cove with a beard like that inspired confidence. Bronn, however, with his loyalty to Tyrion, and penchant for leather, perversion, and casual violence?

 

“No one is going to get biffed about, are they?” I would not survive imprisonment if a rampage took place in my name!

 

“Only if they piss me off,” Clegane added, casual as you’d like. Perhaps it was not Bronn who I needed to fret over? One bop from the meaty paw of my valet, and someone would be left with an obliterated visage that Lannister’s surgeon could never hope to fix. I fought for the correct words needed in this situation, where all things balanced on knife edges and that sort of rot. The sort of sensible, well-considered wordage that would show my self-control and opinion of the entire damned thing.

 

“Oh. Um. Jolly good?” Dash it all.

 

Metaphorically grasping myself by the scruff of the neck, I gave myself a goodly shake. Silence, Willas! I told myself. Stop being a worrying jellyfish and let the chap get on with whatever marvellous plan he has. It was obvious that there were ideas afoot, and since I was skint of any myself, I proposed that I fling myself upon the comfort of having someone else deal with my issues for me. If no-one i.e. me died, or were disinherited, or thrown to the Winterfell wolves, or, worst of all, made to marry, everything would be tickety-boo.

 

Then Clegane decided to smile for the first time forever, all teeth and twisted flesh and grimace-y, and I started to wonder what on earth I’d let myself in for.

 

As the dead poet johnny once said: if I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a Dornish field. That is forever Willas.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Harold Gillies, pioneer of reconstructive surgery from 1917 onwards at The Queen’s Hospital, Sidcup, is a personal hero of mine.


	4. In Which there are Plots, Violence of a Violent Sort, But Also Happy Endings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the last chapter - it's bloody enormous! I've really enjoyed my first (and definitely not last) foray into the ASoIaF fandom. It's a cracking fandom, full of lovely people. There may be other fics to be found within the Dornewall Chronicles, but I am next planning (and now off to research) an English Civil War AU. It will not be as this fic is, and will try and be far more sensible (if I can do that. My fics have the propensity towards the ridiculous, even if I try and be strong). 
> 
> Thanks ever so much, everyone. I hope you've enjoyed. Much appreciation to all!

* * *

 

 

“Excuse me? Is any sitting here? Could I join you?” The voice was angel-soft, a delicate mezzo-soprano that could grace the stage at La Scala, and terribly young. 

 

“Um. Of course, please, do sit.” It would pay to be polite, of course, to the unfortunate girl. Sansa looked a vision in steel grey and pearls, her hair piled into some sort of complicated cage of plaits that hinted at Wagnerian milkmaids. They were right; very pretty indeed, especially close up, though her gaze spoke of an almost romantic sadness and she seemed a little withdrawn. Perhaps she pined, mourning the unfortunate elephant-related death of the Baratheon?  

 

“Would you like some tea?”

 

“Yes. Thank you.” Painfully correct, both of us, hideously awkward, and I’m sure the poor thing was as unwilling as I when regarding the sitch we found ourselves in. Not surprising re. leg situation and a growing reputation amongst relatives of being awful with humanity in general. Not the brightest and most leaping of trout in the stream, is this Tyrell, as evidenced by the general scorn and pity of one’s supposed friends the evening before. According to all, apart from my inimitable Clegane, I should be thanking the Makers that I should catch such a toothsome young creature, but, dash it all, I wished to unhook the poor beazelfish and pop her back into the sea, where she would meet a far better piscine than I! Not that I am any sort of fisherperson; I have a strange understanding with our swimming brethren.

 

“So. Did you enjoy the wedding?” So forced! So stilted! I stabbed a fried mushroom with self-disgust. Others would be flowing in poetic gestures and flattering speech, telling her she was goddess-like and Aphrodite re-incarnated, that her hair is the shining garnet of autumnal foliage, and her smile is as ivory and pearl. Songs of Solomon and all of that rot. I, as often is the case, faltered at the smallest of talk. Always a fathead and a foo!!

 

Oberyn Martell never thought me an idiot. Delightful chap. I can talk to him bally perfectly, thank you very much. Perhaps it is a cove thing - much less intimidating than the unmarried prowling female (or the unwillingly foisted female, come to think of it).

 

“Yes, thank you.” She added precisely one cube of brown sugar to her tea; was that rebellion against the social more? Non-white sugar in a cup of Darjeeling? Perhaps she was more than she seemed? Almost Communist, that.

 

“‘Cella looked very beautiful.” Come on, Willas, I roared. You shall be able to talk to your future bride (circumstances obviously dictating). “I thought her dress very elegant.” Clothes. Girls like clothes. I waded onwards, bracing myself against the frozen current of having to talk to someone I did not really know and was unfortunately engaged to. “I thought the cut was excellent, it really can be jolly difficult to carry off a dropped waist, but the flow of the fabric made everything quite sublime. Wonderful lace!”

 

I am a marvel. Of course I can speak to others! Tish and pish the rest of you (other than Clegane, oh paragon!) Perfectly normal chat, what? Between a chap and a young lady. Upon fashion. Obviously.

 

Sansa gave me the oddest of looks, as if I were some terribly queer fish, but her smile seemed a little less stiff than before.

 

“She looked ever so pretty.” Opera singers have coarser voices than la petite Stark! (pardon my awful French! I am not sure whether a le or la is required, never any bally good at languages apart from High Valyrian, but as a scientist, this is a huge requirement. My labial abilities tended towards elsewhere; I have been told that my tonguing is excellent - I once played the oboe with aplomb). She was as linnets, and larks, that wheel and carol across the warm summer skies. Aerie spirits, light and delicate. 

 

“And Trystane, dashed smart in that suit!”

 

A tiny blush! Adorable! 

 

I really had no interest in this charming creature. My thoughts? Purely appreciative as in the way one admires a painting, or a piece of silver in the form of a cow, and at no moment did I wish to declaim my passions unto her for there were none that needed to be declaimed. A sweet friend for missive writing, perhaps, or a slightly gossipy companion at dinner maybe, but marriage was not to be upon any sort of card, playing, invitation, or other! Of course, there could be worse matches i.e. Cersei Lannister now she is prowling about for fresh human males to ravish, but I am a. not blond and b. not young enough for her entirely singular tastes. 

 

Could chaps who belong to the good old C of E. become monks? Is that entirely an Eastern chappies in orange robes thing now?

 

I digress, as ever.

 

“Willas?” Her voice - oh, her sweet and delightful voice - tremored with emotion. Her long dark lashes fluttered, butterfly wing-ly, upon alabaster cheeks.

 

“Yes, my dear?” I offered her a bite of my toast, slathered with lashings of good old Dornish honey.

 

“ Oh, nothing. I should-” Her eyes widening into a vixen-nervousness, she stood, far too tall and female. “I will see you later. Sorry.” And with a gentle kiss to one’s brow, a solicitous squeeze of the manly shoulder, she oiled off.

 

Clegane came with orange juice moments later, which was jolly thoughtful of him.   
  


* * *

 

Events move speedily  in the strange world of Willas Tyrell. After my goodly breakfast, I decided to take a gentle roll about the Water Gardens; as no strolling can be achieved when confined to a chair, then one must trundle with fervour. When needed, I can propel myself for some distance, and I decided that I must brood amongst the lilies a la Keats et al (or was that Tennyson? Am I confusing _ La Belle Dame Sans Mercy _ (Margie!) with my  _ Lady of Shallot _ ?) Gloves on, hat rakish upon the Tyrell brow, I wheeled myself out onto the block-paved path and bimbled onwards.

 

I jolly well looked forward to a spot of introspection and a thoroughly indulgent mope. It was the sort of morning where all was deliciously pleasant; birds twittered, dragonflies buzzed about, alarmingly large goldfish (what does Doran feed them? The ashes of his enemies?!) basked lazily in the warm sunlight. Also in ponds; they did not climb out of ponds and bask upon the earth, that would have been foolish. No cloud darkened the skies above, the sleeping ocean lapped delicately at the distant silver-sanded beach. All was peaceful, and I found the solitude most marvellous.

 

I paused for breath and to massage my wrists in a rather wistful bower where a bronze copy of the Manneken Pis tinkled water most singularly into a stone-carved bird bath and wisteria frothed ahead. Doran is jolly lucky with his gardens! The aforementioned sea air at Dorne is marvellous for encouraging all sorts of fancy plants to sprout forth, and he has possibly the most well stocked estate in the whole of the country. Of course he has no idea what goes on, and employs a vast team of gardener johnnies to do the plant-y sorts of things one needs to do, but he is an appreciator of beauty for the sake of beauty. Wheelchairs and gardening are a recipe for disaster; I once had a slight altercation with a creeping vine that still scars me to this very day.

 

  
“Ah, my Tyrell.” Oberyn stepped from the foliage like, well, Oberon, King of Fairies. He was all cream slacks that tended towards the interestingly snug, and a vaguely buttoned silk shirt. Mussed. Nay, rumpled. Artistically.

 

“Ah, Oberyn, imagine meeting you here!” Serendipity, thy name is Martell! Broodiness could jolly well go and hang now.

 

“Most fortuitous, my Tyrell.” He padded over, settling himself a tad gingerly at the edge of the bird bath and resting a warm, long-fingered hand lightly upon my forearm. “This must be fate, she must be very kind to me today. And alone? No valets, relatives, or charming young ladies accompanying?”

 

“No, old bean, just me I’m afraid.”

 

“How awful.” He didn’t sound miffed; indeed, there may have been the slightest suggestion of a wink. “But you wear gloves in this weather? Are you not warm?” He brought that hand to my forehead, then stole my hat (what is it about everyone stealing my things?!) and popped it on the head of the urinating statue. “Are you unwell? Shall I warm you with an embrace?”

 

“Oh! Oh no,” replied I, though a hug would have been super. Oberyn’s pout at my words was frightfully guilt-making. I really should have allowed full bodily contact for the chap’s own self-confidence to be appeased! “They’re so my hands don’t get all ripped up from the chair wheels. Blasted things are quite sharp if you grab them wrong.” I peeled the beastly things off, to calm the Martell fervour.

 

“You must have a grip like iron.” Fingertips stroked my palm. Tickly! Giggles threatened.

 

“I have been told I do have strong hands-”

 

“So large! You must be able to handle very big objects. How wide are they?”

 

I held one up, spreading the fingers and studying for a moment. “Hmm. Eight inches or so? Pushing towards the nine, I’d say!”

 

Oberyn smirked, lights dancing in those dark dark eyes. You know those kaleidoscope thingies? Quite hypnotic, like them. All sparking, and brightness, and irises speckled chocolate and demerara sugar.

 

“My sweet Tyrell,” he purred, breath warm and heady against the shell-like ear of the young master. “I am so glad you are here.” His cologne had a curious spiciness, an altogether exotic scent that settled in the nostrils and spoke of heady pleasures and delicious naughtiness. For a moment, I was thrown into the cotton-woolly swimminess of the wedding breakfast, albeit lacking good wine and boring speeches. Fleetingly, I wondered what on earth I would do if he were to nip at my earlobe with curious abandon?

 

Faint. Definitely faint.

 

“Mmm,” said I, with great intelligence. All I wished for at that bally moment was for more purring and glances of the soft flesh at the insides of his elbows. I am positive that he wears pale colours as it makes him look all toffee-flavoured and delicious. Perhaps the tiniest little nibble, on the wrist or throat or-

 

A rustle, a sharpening of the Oberyn countenance, and then I was being kissed so passionately that I fell out of the chair, and he fell into the bird bath, and I ended up laying upon six feet of fascinatingly build Dornishman. Pressure, and heat, and an insistent tongue demanding the portcullis of my lips yield, and, gosh, I surrendered so hard that I think I tweaked a muscle. Fingers in hair, thighs entwining, and all I could think about was giving in to the sensation of being utterly drowned by something I did not understand whatsoever, but was so exquisite that I was perfectly thrilled to sacrifice myself to the cause. The bird bath splashed. But who would let a garden ornament destroy such a fevered kiss? Who would allow themselves to be dragged from a place where everything was made of mashing lips, and tugging hands, and a strange protrusion being ground into my own strange protrusion?

 

Me. That’s who?

 

All was tickety-boo and boomps-a-daisy ooja cum spliff  jolly spiffy marvellous in the world until the harpy-shrieks of an incandescently appalled Grandmother rent the air.

 

“HOW DARE YOU, WILLAS TYRELL!”

 

I squeaked, passion doused by terror and horror and all of those awful things, and tried to squirm from the impressively tight embrace of the Martell. Who was grinning. Grinning! At a situation such as this! Perhaps this was one of those strange reactions one has to shocking news. such as inopportune laughter, but the light danced about his dark irises. Managing to disentangle the corpus in a hurry, I heaved myself, squishily, back into the chair and stared at the small but unfortunate audience who seemed to have witnessed the entire bally snogging sesh.

 

Then Olenna decided to biff me on the nose with her ebony cane, and I went out like a lightbulb.

 

* * *

  
  
When I awoke, what felt like aeons later, I was tucked into my comfortable bed and Clegane was buzzing about wielding steak. My head seemed to be intact, just about,but it was as if I had been at the gin fizzes; soupy and heavy and thick. The steak was duly clamped to the swelling bulging forth upon the Tyrell phizzog, and I had some brandy poured medicinally down the old throat.

 

“I got-”

 

“Yeah, I know.”

 

“And San-”

 

“Aye.”

 

“And the whole bally lot-”

 

Clegane nodded. He seemed brighter, somewhat, as if a heavy weight had been hauled from about his neck. Indeed, if I did not know my paragon of valets better, he was shimmering about the place, radiating some sort of strange excitement that I could not imagine to understand. Here I lay, upon my deathbed after being bashed about the skull by a vicious old woman with a whangee, and he positively seemed chipper about the whole sitch.

 

“I am dying, Clegane,” I added, perhaps a tad melodramatically. 

 

“No you’re not. You’re not dying, getting married, or any of that shit.”

 

“But I am dy-...I am not getting married?!” I sat up with too much haste, and promptly fainted once more.

 

After coming back to the land of the living for the second time in quarter of an hour, I grabbed his hand. “Tell me all! Tell me, Clegane!”

 

The customary chair was pulled to the bed, the customary Myrish lit for himself and this young Tyrell. Brandy poured, pillows judiciously propped, myself carefully installed and promising not to faint, I waited, agog.

 

“So, you didn’t want to marry Sansa, and she didn’t want to marry you either. No offense, you’re not her ‘specific dream rabbit.’”

 

“None taken, my good man!” I pondered how he knew this, but valets are not like us mere mortals. He could possibly sense her choice of young gentleman from fifty paces.

 

Clegane launched into it; how he understood the soupiness of the issue, how the only way free one from the blackmail-inspired nuptials was to really insert cats amongst certain pigeons, so to speak. He persuaded Oberyn viz. pouncing in the arbour, then martialled his valet troops into supplying the necessary audience so as to witness the masculine debauchery. Olenna had to be there to witness yours truly getting terribly friendly with aforementioned Martell, Tyrion was included as he is a terrible gossip and the whole of the capital would know of my dalliance by sundown. 

 

Oddly enough it was Stannis who sprang to my aid; he and Seaworth dragged the vengeance-propelled Grandmere away from thrashing me to death, and told her under no uncertain terms that it was jolly lucky he was not arresting her for grievous bodily harm. Since the unfortunate incident, he has invited us to tea at his flat; perhaps he understands the tribulations a chap must undergo in some strange way. Seaworth has proved terribly attentive.

 

Of course the engagement was called off. As Clegane pointed out, since I am now officially Batting For The Other Side in the eyes of society (I was not even aware that sides could be batted for; I was a much more competent bowler in school, something to do with a wonderful wrist action) I need not fret about beazels being shoved at me. I am now seen as a sort of brotherly type, with whom young ladies can talk about gentlemen, and how swoony Rudolph Valentino is, without being worried that I may lay my suit at their doors.

 

“Jolly good show there, Clegane! I owe you, oh, many wonderful things and a pay rise, my good man!”

 

“Uh...yeah. About the pay rise. I’m going to hand my notice in when we get back home.”

 

I blinked. “But how can you desert this Tyrell in his time of need, Clegane? I am without family, and possibly friends, cast into the desert of social pariah-hood, and now, my saviour, you wish to abandon poor old Willas also?!” This just simply would not do! “Is it anything to do with the kissing lark with Oberyn? I mean, he started it!"

 

We didn’t even finish it, dash it all!

 

“Nothing to do with that. It’s not illegal, is it?” He took a long drag on his gasper, eyeing me levelly. “I’m getting married.”

 

That explained the shimmer and cheer. I automatically slipped into congratulatory mode.

 

“Congratulations, Clegane! Who is the lucky beazel.”

 

He said a name.

 

Even though doing so was getting a tad boring, I fainted again. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
Someone smacked me across the chops, albeit in quite the respectful manner. Not a massive Clegane hand, but a delicate and feminine scented one. Lavender danced, jasmine tittered, and I opened my eyes in protest at the rough treatment.

 

Blue eyes, a drifting mane of auburn hair that glowed with the afternoon sunlight, a concerned expression upon a sweetly-pretty face quite devoid of any sort of paints or feminine wiles. It is disconcerting how a chap can know a beazel normally, and then she either puts a face on or takes it off, and there stands before you a completely different person indeed! When once I played Titania in my prep school’s version of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, I had been subjected to rouges and lipsticks and the like. I ended up looking disconcertingly like Margaery, much to the excitement of half of the cricket XI. 

 

“He’s awake.” Silver bells and cockle shells and Sansas all in a row. Nausea struck, and I clamped my mouth tightly shut. Probably not best to vomit upon my ex- _ fiancée _ .

 

“About bloody time.” Larger, rougher hands mauled the poor corpus into a sitting position, more brandy was forced into the Tyrell throat.

 

“I just wanted to say thank you,” Sansa murmured. Even though I was mortally wounded, her voice was as trickling waterfalls and smiling babies.

 

“Oh?” What had I done? I was belaboured about the bonce, and had been thoroughly snogged by a delicious cove with sinuous hips and a taste for man-flesh. What else had I achieved that day? It had already been terribly busy, with being unconscious and all.

 

“Sandor-” For a moment I had no bally idea who she was banging on about, until slowly realising that must be Clegane’s given name, “told me about the sacrifice you made, ensuring our engagement would be broken so I would be free to marry him.”

 

“I. Um.”

 

“It was all your idea, after all.” A happy note burbled in the peat-heather tones. “Getting caught with Martell so the engagement would be off.”

 

“Yes. All my idea.” I hoped to whichever Gods were listening at that moment that Clegane had also told Tyrion about my supposed heroics. Perhaps that would entice certain espresso-eyed Dornes back into finishing off where once we began? Although possibly not. What if Oberyn’s kissing had just been because of Clegane’s request? What if there was to be no more pashing in any arbour whatsoever? What if I were to be lost alone, and Oberyn-less, evermore?

 

“You are so sweet. I’m so sorry you were hurt on our account.

 

“I am very happy for you both.” Stiffly. I felt rather used, to be perfectly frank. However, the way they looked at each other - terribly specific dream rabbit-like - melted the icy shell of this Tyrell’s heart. Fingers tangled, shy smile upon the lips of Sansa and fierce protective hound-like expression raging over the Clegane dial, and it was as if two hearts now beat in the chest of one.

 

“Gosh, really, don’t mention it,” I added. “Congratulations to you both!”

 

* * *

 

Apparently, so I finally heard upon the underground grapevine of knowledge (I plied Tyrion with vodka until he spilled all), Clegane had been the reason for the breaking of the Baratheon Engagement. He and young Miss Stark had become friends during the whole horrid affair - it seems he was not driven by personal passion when extricating her from the grasp of the aforementioned Joffrey as he was sure the regard was merely one-sided, merely understanding that young Sansa needed rescuing from a rummy sitch - but the flame of love grew through regular correspondence. 

 

Back in the capital, all is quiet. I engaged a new chap since Clegane and the now Mrs. C. (biffed off to Gretna and married over the anvil before her parentals could cry nay to the match) were honeymooning at the Cap d’Volantis, paid for as a wedding gift by the young master. I pointed out to Clegane in no uncertain terms that as a lady, Sansa could not be expected to work, and therefore it was a foolish notion of his to chuck in the valet-ing, at least for the mo. He has notions of going back north and setting up some sort of distillery at the Stark family homestead, but as he needs to save the pennies to fund such venture, he is, for now, remaining at Roseroad under the request of myself and will return to my abode after the Clegane sojourn.

 

Connington, the aforementioned new man, is terribly professional in the manner of the usual gentleman’s gentleman. He had a run in with his previous employer (Targaryen sort, you know how they are) about wearing mustard socks with a heather-flecked tweed travelling costume in dark khaki, and had left the service when neither would back down about the sartorial issue. Quite agree with Connington there; I mean, a chap has to have standards! Something else about a banjolele also, but I just nodded and asked for another gin fizz. He mentions the Targaryen quite often, with a strange and misty look upon the old mug, and I think he’ll be biffing off back to whence he came once Clegane is reinstalled. Thankfully. One can be overly polite, after all, and I have a faint aversion to red-heads these days.

 

Renly and Loras have taken to visiting more often, and often snuggle upon the chesterfield whilst drinking most of my booze. When they ‘found out’ about the Martell Thing, they told me ‘it’s about bloody time, Willas, both of us knew you’re flaming,’ and then a crisp fiver was passed from Tyrell to Baratheon. Apparently there had been some sort of bet flying about re. batting and other sides, whereas my brother was convinced I would remain within a wardrobe or some bally thing, and my, well, brother-in-law, I supposed, considered otherwise.

 

Cersei Lannister has married her cousin! Who could imagine that, eh?!

 

Other matters- oh, dash it all, doorbell! I wonder who on earth this could be at eleven on a Sunday eve? No one of a sane mind would pop around at this hour, let alone unannounced. I mean, really, just a quick ring before descending, and I’d be bally thrilled to play host, but just oiling up without telling yours truly is quite rude, don’t you know?

 

* * *

  
  
I have read this through. He calls you dear reader? This is a diary, no one else will read this. Strange boy. He sleeps now. Even a Tyrell can snore. He slumbers, and steals all of the sheets, and I am quite cold. The capital is so chill after Dorne. 

 

Sweet boy. He mumbles and squirms and is very noisy in sleep. Hush, my Tyrell. I am here. Hush, and sleep, and in the morning when you wake, I will be with you still. Silly boy.

 

You broke. I loved.

 

Ten years. So very long to wait, but I am a patient man. The Viper always gets what he needs. I need you. Handsome boy. So trusting. So gentle. So clever. When you write once more, you will read this. Someone must tell you that you are all things that are good. No one else sees this within your soul. I know you, dearest Tyrell. Since you were young I have known this. No blame where such could be pressed. The pained brave smile as you were carried to your family home. Broken and not cursing a heartsick Martell. A kindness in your heart. Could a man not fall in love with such a man? A knight above all others. _ Gentillesse _ of the soul is born, not bred, into truly good.

 

He presses against my chest. He dribbles when he sleeps. My chest is growing damp.

 

_ Shall I compare thee to a Dornish day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. _

 

I shall sleep also, for tomorrow we go to Dorne.


End file.
